I can never have you.
I know that.
I can hold your hand, because you don't know.
But I know.
I know that I can't have you.
I can hug you, because friends do that.
I can kiss you on the cheek, because you won't read anything into it.
But I can't kiss you the way I want to.
Because you won't kiss me back if I do that.
Because you aren't like me.
Because after all, we're just best friends.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Because we've been so close since we were children, when I could call you mine with out fear, because that's what children do.
I can't any more.
You know what I am, that I like women more then men, that I don't fit our parent's definition of normal.
But you don't care. And you're so damned oblivious.
I think that's my saving grace.
Because it means that I can fall asleep on your chest, wrapped in your arms.
Even if you aren't mine.